


Like Rain on a Field in Scotland

by PontiusHermes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Grief, History influences present, Honesty, Kindness, Letters, Love, Sad, Sweet, Trust, Understanding, Wisdom, learning, non-romantic, personal history, respect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 07:54:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6365602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PontiusHermes/pseuds/PontiusHermes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Younger) Professor McGonagall is upset after receiving a letter from her mother. Dumbledore is kind to her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Rain on a Field in Scotland

Professor McGonagall sat in her Transfiguration classroom, her mother's letter held tight in her hands. There was not much chance anyone would come along -- it was dinner; they would be in the Great Hall. The room had grown dark around her, and she grieved. She grieved for herself, for what could have been her future. Dougal McGregor, her mother had written, Dougal McGregor who had proposed to her, was now wedded to someone else, a farmer's daughter. She told herself that she had chosen what she had, she rejected his proposal when he wanted to marry her. She told herself that the repression that would surely have come with marrying him would be so much worse than her life now. She told herself this, but her tears fell steadily, rhythmically, like rain on a field in Scotland.

She had overlooked the ease with which her absence would be noted. Her place would be empty, someone would realise. But she forgot this as the chasm of her grief sucked logical thought away, leaving her floundering in a merciless ocean of tears. Gradually she quietened and heard soft footsteps in the passageway outside, approaching the classroom. Unwilling to be found in such a state, she grasped the first idea that came to her and became, almost instinctively, a cat. Eyes alert, she curled, crouching low, around the leg of her desk. That was when her former teacher, former mentor and the head of her department entered. Albus Dumbledore.

He scanned the classroom briefly, and his brilliant eyes found her form. She knew that there was nought that she could do but resume her human form, if she was to be polite. If Dumbledore was alarmed or surprised by her tear-streaked countenance, nothing showed in his face to tell of it.

'I would ask you if you're OK, but I have a feeling that that would be a rather dull-witted thing to ask at the present moment.' His voice was light, but the gravity in his face reassured her that he was not being flippant. He conjured a chair and pulled it up across the desk from her, sat down so their eyes were level. She told him everything, with great honesty. For the sake of trust and the need to tell someone, the story fled from her heart like a swollen river. Never had she known anyone to be such a perfect listener.

When she was finished they sat in silence a while, she fearing that she had said too much, he considering. At length he began to talk. He gave her his counsel, and she held each word reverently in her mind. He gave her comfort, and she kept every word close in her heart. Finally he told her of some of the follies and foibles he had in his youth, of his family and what became of them, that she would know that he was not at all perfect either. And she listened, and the tears dried on her face.

There was another period of silence after his discourse, but a much more comfortable one. They both reflected on what they had heard, what they had said. Eventually he bid her goodnight and told her, gently, that he supposed sleep might do her some good. He escorted her back to her office, for her bedroom was concealed beyond it, before making his way to his own room. On her desk was a platter piled high with food, which she rightly assumed he was responsible for. She ate a little, and then slept, too exhausted for dreams.

Things were different after that evening. Between them was a greater warmth, understanding, trust. If she needed someone to confide in, she went to him; he rarely seemed to confide in anyone, but she was there on that rare occasion. And if he knew, with his strange way of knowing things, that she sometimes still woke with Dougal's name upon her lips, he never said a word about it. Their friendship developed, and the events of that night became the very core of it, the heart of a tree; unseen, but the foundation around which everything else would grow.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :)
> 
> Pontius


End file.
